


Moving on

by Onomatopoetikon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, John Watson is Alone, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25625965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onomatopoetikon/pseuds/Onomatopoetikon
Summary: Sometimes, moving on is not that simple. Sometimes, pain is all you have left.This fic takes place after The Reichenbach Fall and is an attempt to glimpse some of what John's life was like after Sherlock's death. The story is partly inspired by Marlon Roudette's song "New Age".
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Moving on

There were so many things he should say. So many things he should have already said, but had never felt the need to say. There had been no need, and all the time in the world.

Well, that no longer held true. It was too late now. And yet he had to say the words.

Even if doing so hurt like hell.

"You told me once" he hesitated, cleared his throat, but only for a moment. He had to say it. "That you weren't a hero."

He shifted his weight, searching for the continuation, searching for a way to make the words come out right.

"Umm…There were times when I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human…" he almost smiled at the phrasing, "human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. That so. There."

They were the right words. They were good words. But they were not enough.

Perhaps if he stood closer. Perhaps, if he touched the stone, it would be easier.

It was not.

"I was so alone and I owe you so much."

Those words were so big. They were words he would never have said to any other person, because no other person would be worthy of them. He owed Sherlock his life. Sherlock had given him something to do, something worthwhile, without feeling sorry for him or treating him like anything else than a regular, capable person. There had been the cases, of course, sleepless nights and long chases, but also companionship. TV-nights. Someone to talk with over tea. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly – they were all people he would never have met or gotten to know if it had not been for Sherlock. Everything he had, everything his life consisted of, was in some way thanks to Sherlock. Only… Sherlock was no longer there.

He turned to go. Mrs Hudson would be waiting for him.

But he could not go. Not just yet. The grave was still there. Shiny black stone, clear letters spelling out the all too familiar name. It made him feel sick.

"But please-"

He felt the words clotting together in his throat.

"There's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me- Don't… be…" his voice broke over the last word. "Dead."

Tears were threatening to well up and he had to breathe, had to try and push them down again. His voice came out a whisper, like something small and wounded.

"Would you do that? Just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

He could say no more. It hurt. Everything hurt, but still he could not force himself to say the words that would have encompassed all his feelings because somehow, admitting those feelings would make everything even worse. He had lost the single most important people in his life, and if he acknowledged even to himself just how important Sherlock had been, John did not think he would ever make it out of the graveyard.

So he collected himself, drew himself up, saluted, and marched away.

It hurt. Every step hurt like stepping on burning coal and still he felt cold all over, as if he was somehow in the grave he left behind. Perhaps he was.

The feeling did not cease. He knew it would, probably. That every hour and every day would help him to shake of that cold. But he did not want to. That cold was the only thing he really had left now, the only lingering feeling of Sherlock. The only thing to hold on to.

So even though it hurt like hell – he held on to it.

He did not return to Baker Street for a long time.

When he did, he did so without telling Mrs Hudson about it. He did not want her there, aware that her comforting words and gestures would only make him feel worse than he already did.

Everything was the same. The lingering smell of chemistry reagents, the light through the curtains, the way the furniture was arranged. There was a thin layer of dust on everything and dust, he remembered, was eloquent. He had to agree. The dust spoke volumes.

It said that no one had sat in the armchairs since before the police had returned, arresting Sherlock, and John had punched the superintendent in the face for being such a pompous prick.

It said that the long rows of books, loved and well-read as proven by their worn covers, had not been touched since a hidden camera had been removed from behind them.

It said that the apartment which had always been so full of life, whether clients were visiting or Sherlock was blowing something up in the microwave, was perfectly abandoned and had been so for a very long time.

Even Mrs Hudson had been neglecting it. And was there really any reason why she should not?

The rational part of his mind said that any reasonable landlady would have had the apartment cleared out when it stood clear that none of the tenants would return. She would have advertised for new occupants. Perhaps a nice couple, perhaps with a child. But she had not, and John was at the same time incredibly thankful and thoroughly annoyed.

He did not sit down. He did not touch anything, even though his fingers itched for the violin, which was carelessly left standing against one of the bookshelves. He wanted to lift it up, to place it somewhere covered, but he could not will himself to do it. The violin belonged to Sherlock and thus, he could not, would not touch it. As if doing so might offend.

In fact, everything in the room was Sherlock's. The furniture, the paintings, the books… The few things John had brought with him to Baker Street had never made it into the living room, but had remained in his bedroom and been removed from there as he left after the… the incident.

John drew himself up, drew a breath. It hurt. Burned.

None of this was his. Not the apartment, not the armchair in which he had been sitting almost every day for two years… And if it did not belong to him, then he did not belong there. Not when the man who had given him access to it was not there.

He made his way down the staircase. He needed… somewhere. Something of his own. The hostel in which he had been staying was too expensive in the long run, especially when you did not really make any money. He could not come back here, live here, even if Mrs Hudson had asked him to. He had known that before visiting, had known that coming back was bound to feel like being shot all over again, _like watching it happen all over again_ , but he had done it any way. Self-inflicted pain was still pain, but he could handle pain, could control it. And if he could control it, perhaps he could move on.

Even as he closed the front door, he knew the answer to that question.

He could never control the pain. He could never really move on.

The newspaper headlines were impossible to miss. Big, black and bold letters spelled out words that John already knew.

One year, they said. One year since the trial against Moriarty. One year since the famous, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was exposed as a criminal mastermind. One year since it all became too much and Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death, rather than face justice.

One year since the pain began. One year since the hollow in his chest appeared. One year of feeling like shit and knowing that you did not want it any other way, that the only remedy for this ailment was a miracle. And John Watson did not believe in miracles.

He almost had, once.

Once, he had thought that if anyone could fool death, it would be Sherlock. Once, he had been waiting for the man to just show up in the doorway and ask, frustrated, why John was not in the apartment when there was a case to solve or a text to be sent. Once, he had begged for the impossible to happen.

He did not read the article. He knew what it would say and it was not true. Sherlock had been many things: an adrenalin junkie, a smartass with huge social skills but little interest in using them, a brilliant violinist and a sore loser, but he had not been a fraud. Many things, yes, but not that.

John laughed to himself, sitting there in his small apartment. What he would not give to be in Baker Street again! To find eyeballs in the fridge, or gunshots in the wall, that was nothing, if he would only find Sherlock there as well. He would gladly play one hundred games of Cluedo for that.

The laugh became a sob, a hoarse, guttural cry, and he raised his hands to his face.

He was trying. He was. But the pain would not lessen and he still felt so utterly abandoned and pathetic and _damn_ , he missed the idiotic dickhead. So, so much.

Soft steps fell on the carpet, bare feet, a whiff of soap and shampoo. Small hands squeezed his shoulders gently before she hugged him from behind, locks of her hair tickling his neck.

"You loved him" she said. "Don't ever stop doing that."

He never would.


End file.
